The Eye of Madness (19 page)

“Why did he tell you to leave?”

“Because I was a nigger at a white church and niggers were unclean animals according to the beliefs of that preacher.”

Steff cringed at the use of the ‘n' word. It was one of today's ultimate taboo words. Of course, when Carmella was six years old it was as common as saying ‘hello'.

“He beat you for playing? But, but … you were only six!” Steff shrieked.

“It didn't matter,” Carmella said, reaching out and stroking Steff's hand. “A nigger, was a nigger, was a nigger … it didn't matter how old or how young. He was doing God's work by punishing and removing the impurity from holy ground.”

“I bet he is burning in Hell!” Steff snapped.

“I don't think so,” Carmella said with a smile. This took Steff by surprise. How could he not be burning in Hell, and how could she seem happy if he was not?

“What?” Steff asked in disbelief.

“You see … this preacher, this man, was ignorant. It took many years, but he finally recognized his ignorance. He was so overcome with guilt of what he had done, he tracked me down to apologize and beg my forgiveness.”

“Did you?” Steff asked.

“Of course I did, honey. If I couldn't forgive him for his transgressions against me, how could I ever expect God to do the same for me?”

Steff didn't answer, she had never considered this. She knew deep down that she would find it difficult to forgive someone for treating her so cruelly. Carmella must be a special woman.

“So you see, sweetheart … there is hope for everyone, even your grandfather.”

Almost as if the very mention of his name summoned him, the door flew open. There stood Ott Garrison with a stern and unforgiving expression.

CHAPTER 20

THE ERRAND AND THE NEW ORDER

“Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them.”

~Ephesians 5:11

Burt and Cecil didn't force Musial back in the chair to be tied up again, but they did insist he remain on his side of the room. He complied with no argument and sat on the floor with his back against the wall, a pillow cradled in his lap. He continued to clutch it as he gazed back at his captors. His countenance did not seem vicious, it was more casual curiosity. Cecil and Burt got little sleep. What rest they did get was staggered as they took turns watching the allegedly penitent dark soul. It was funny how a much a different personality and demeanor can change a person's physical appearance. The longer they were around Musial, the easier it was to forget he inhabited the body of their alcoholic ally, Sam Andrews. But Cecil hadn't forgotten. Shortly after daybreak, he walked within a few feet of Musial. His hand grasped the butt of his weapon in case Musial wasn't as remorseful as he proclaimed.

“Is Sam still in there?” he asked.

Musial nodded. “Of course, and when I am done you can have your hot headed, chemically dependent friend back.”

Cecil, or anyone else in the group, carried no real affection for Andrews. The man had been useful through the connection with his brother for the ships which evacuated the Impals. In all truthfulness, he was more of a hindrance and royal pain in the ass than anything. Still, he was one of their own.

“Is he still in there?” Cecil asked.

“Oh, yes,” Musial said with an impatient shrug.

Cecil stared at him, finally driving the message home that his answer was unsatisfactory.

Musial sighed and stretched his legs. “His consciousness is asleep. It was easy enough to keep him this way … he had quite a lot to drink.”

“But he should be sobered up by now …” Cecil began, but was cut short by a shameful clicking of the tongue from Musial.

“Major, major, major, I thought you understood. The body and the soul have little to do with each other. This body has been sober now for hours, but the soul, your dear Mr. Andrews's soul, is drunk with sadness, anger, and despair. To be blunt, he is an emotional abomination. It has been far too easy to keep him under, so to speak.”

“Is he a dark soul, like you?” Cecil asked.

Musial seemed bemused. “I couldn't have taken him over, not if we were similar to me. No, Mr. Andrews is no dark soul. He is just … how do you say it nowadays … a hot mess.”

Cecil didn't know whether to be pleased or upset. Pleased because Andrews was just a normal jerk, or upset that his father seemed to be one in the same with the darkness. Part of him didn't want to believe it. As hard as he tried for the last couple of months, he couldn't bring himself to completely hate his father. Sure he hated the things he had done, both now and when he was a child. He could hate him on the surface, yet deep down; there was a small ember of a son's love still burning for his father. It singed his heart. He wasn't sure he could ever extinguish the feeling and it made him feel guilty.

“Is there any hope for my father?” Cecil asked in a whisper; he didn't want the others to hear.

“Perhaps,” Musial said stroking his chin. “If he overcomes his ignorance. However, with your alcoholic friend here,” he said pointing to his own forehead. “The first step is admitting he has a problem. In his case, admitting he has been ignorant of the truth. The weakness of dark souls is pride. It comes before all else. If he can't overcome pride, admit he has been wrong and then seek honest redemption, well then … I am afraid he has no hope at all.”

Cecil heard and understood what Musial said, yet he made no reply. Instead, he walked to the window and stared outside as the morning sun began to drive the darkness back into the woods.

“How did you overcome your pride?” Cecil asked.

Musial shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe I was tired of living in the void with all those other villains for years and years,” he said then gave a soft chuckle. “Or maybe I had time to think …”

Cecil watched him expectantly, but Musial offered no more information. He leaned against the wall with his back turned to the room and began to breathe in and out as if he were sleeping. Cecil pulled up a chair and sat with his pistol across his lap, guarding Musial until Burt woke up.

President Garrison did not have the time or the inclination to chit chat with Carmella and Steff. He reminded Steff that he would expect her for lunch in the president's private office. He then ordered Carmella to make sure they were served chili. Not the weak stuff, as he put it, but the stuff that makes you sweat. He needed a ‘pick me up'.

“Does that sound good to you, Steff?” he asked sounding more of a command than a question.

Steff didn't care much for chili, and hated spicy foods even more, but she was too scared to argue.

“Sure. Sounds good,” she said, forcing a smile.

Satisfied, Garrison closed the door, leaving the two ladies alone and strode back to the Oval Office. The New Order was under way and he must get back to oversee the plans for the United States future. The new United States, with him at the helm enforcing his righteous agenda. When he thought about the accomplishments of his new allies within a few short hours of joining him, he smiled. Garrison failed to stifle a giddy laugh as he descended the stairs.

“God be praised!” he proclaimed to no one in particular, although anyone within fifty feet would have heard him. “They did it all in one night!”

A bystander in the bright halls may have thought he was quoting a line from Charles Dickens's,
A Christmas Carol
. He never read the holiday fable because ghosts were of the Devil. In his mind, he believed he was quoting an obscure verse from the Bible dealing with a timely miracle. He believed a miracle is what he received last night.

Robby Johns and Joan Titsworth had paid some strategic visits to various VIP's around the capital city last evening. In only a few hours, they eliminated most of the opposition to Garrison's coup d'état. They accomplished this with no violence, at least on their part. They just introduced their targets to the dark. The Speaker of the House, several members of Congress, and several military officers met their demise. The massacre was a bloody affair and a remarkable coincidence. It seemed all these high ranking dissenters forgot to stay out of the shadows at the same time. That's where Garrison's longtime friend, Avery, came in, along with geek extraordinaire, Sebastian Gardner. Avery created a speech worthy of a master spin doctor, while Gardner updated internet newsfeeds. This was done in anticipation of connectivity suddenly returning.

Internet and television had been useless since the storm arrived months ago. Nobody knew what the event was, no one knew when or if television and internet might come back. It was best to prepare for when it did. One errant news report could derail everything accomplished by Garrison's administration. They must be preemptive. Radio was much easier to control.

“So, what would you like us to do now, Mr. President?” Robby asked with thick sarcasm.

Garrison didn't notice, or refused to acknowledge, the mocking tone. He gave a quick and enthusiastic response. “Splendid work last night … splendid work!” he boasted, and then with excitement rising in his voice he asked, “Tell me … how did the Speaker meet his end last night?”

Robby and Joan exchanged glances, and then both of them shrugged at the same instant.

“It was the damndest thing I ever saw,” Joan said with a tittering laugh. “We pulled him out of his lit up house into the dark yard. He then got the garden hose and tied a perfect hangman's knot. He tossed it over the limb of a big beech tree and started looking about for something. We didn't know what till he emerged from the corner of the house pulling a wooden bench. Then the idiot proceeds to climb up on it, sticks his head in the garden hose knot, and then jumps as if he was trying to take flight.”

“It sounded like a pencil breaking in two!” Robby added with a laugh.

“How did he know how to tie that?” Garrison asked with amusement. “He did an actual hangman's knot?”

“Well, hanging is not my specialty,” Robby said with a knowing grin. “But it seemed pretty damn accurate to me. It did the job.”

“Yeah, it was definitely the most original of the night,” Joan said. “Everyone else drank poison, shot or stabbed themselves, bashed their head into a wall, or jumped out a window.”

“Oh, you remember the idiot Congressman who threw himself off the roof of his one story house?” Robby cackled. “It took the moron forever to die. He finally managed to crawl to a flower bed and impale himself on a landscaping light. I was about ready to take care of his sorry ass myself, but Avery said to let the dark do the work.”

“I guess it was his final filibuster,” Joan snorted, causing Robby to burst into laughter.

Garrison sat listening to their story and their laughter; he didn't join in though. Not because he found it offensive, no indeed, they were doing God's work to get rid of the dissenters. His attention switched to Avery and Sebastian as they entered the room.

“When is the radio address?” Garrison asked.

“Noon,” Avery said with a wide smile. “Everything is set.”

Garrison started to smile, but then it faded to a frown.

“I have a lunch date today, can it be later?”

Avery shook his head. “No, this is the best time … all the evac bases will be broadcasting on their public address speakers. The morons who were too stupid to evacuate, well, we figure noon would be the most obvious time they would be listening.”

“Those morons will be dead tonight unless they have a generator, anyway,” Sebastian said. “The power is going to be cut to most public areas at 3 PM Eastern Time today and diverted to the bases.”

Garrison stood up and walked to the window, listening to the sound of distant heavy equipment. Beyond the iron fence of the White House grounds, a large front end loader deposited its cargo into the back of a dump truck. Bodies spilled into the bed like a bunch of discarded and bloody rag dolls. The Washington DC Department of Public Works and the National Guard were going to have their hands full today. The corpse clean up and removal across the entire world was overwhelming. Garrison said a silent prayer for those being collected outside and around the world. He pitied the poor people who had fallen victim to the dark, well … all those who didn't stand in the way of God's agenda. He knew it was not their faults; it was the fault of the Impals who were now in their true form. They were not blessed as he was. After all, didn't Psalm 82:3–4 say
Defend the cause of the weak and fatherless; maintain the rights of the poor and oppressed. Rescue the weak and needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked?

This clean up task would be far more daunting than the terrible blizzard that hit the East coast last winter. The bodies coated the streets and neighborhoods of the nation's capital like macabre snow drifts. But in contrast the storm of last winter, this one was worldwide. If the remains were not disposed of soon, they would have another problem on their hands almost as bad as the dark. Disease would run rampant.

“Contact the regular military and tell them to get their asses up here and assist the Guard. This mess has got to be cleaned up fast!” Garrison barked.

“Way ahead of you,” Avery said, tapping his finger against his temple. “I ordered it an hour ago. We should have three hundred more dump trucks and loaders here by the time you go on the air.”

“Thank God it is not summer,” Sebastian remarked as he waved his hand in front of his nose and squinted. “If it were, the stench would already be unbearable.”

“Good job, Avery,” Garrison said. “I think before we begin the meeting we should open with a prayer, don't you?”

Avery nodded and reverently bowed his head, but the other three were incredulous. They rolled their eyes and sighed as Garrison rambled off a self-serving prayer lasting more than two minutes.